~the scent of dead roses~

i killed a poetic boy yesterday. the old ladies in the

shadows swore at him when he was walking home proud as

hell with a new pocketknife. they told him we die

next week so laugh like you got limes for balls. he

called them drippy old vultures in his native tongue.

they didn't understand him and went on laughing and

spitting oily juice into brass spittoons. he made

his eyes evil and stuck his tongue out at them,

so i killed him. i have a deal with the old ladies.

they get tired of little knife thieves. glaring the way

this boy was eating a fat tomato in the sun.

his buddy walked up to him. pants falling down, snot running

down his nose. this boy told his buddy to fuck off and find his

own tomato. so i killed him. i pushed him into the

river. he made alot of noise drowning. now i follow

his buddy who wants tomatoes all day long. i have so

many numbers on my back i can't lift my shadow

off the dirt. he woke up this morning and spent some time

on his shoes. i waited in the dust beneath the lamp-table.

feeling sick and burnt the whole time. this boy's dad works all

day. he bought an electric lamp. i have my ways though.

in this market, the vendors are so poor, i can hide

in the edges of their skirts. i suck flies into my shadow

to get a lift when i get sun sick. nothing escapes

these old ladies dress in black and fan themselves in the

shadows of the cathedral. i never touch them. i sway

for awhile and then some boy comes by and i get him

into trouble. people think they know bright. chrome,

sunlight on silver. his mother washes the old man's

water-glass and it glistens in the nine-am light like

heaven opening up in a drop of water. still this town has

fallen asleep in the stairwell.

the lover was supposed to see

three pigeons in a fight. he would have thrown his

roses into the fray. the piebald one was supposed to

pick up one petal. he would have followed it with his

eyes. it would have fallen into the river. the lover was

to begin a life of misery and woe and bad poetry.

instead, the pigeons had more than enough bread. he

kept walking and ran into the love of his life five

minutes later in the square. i've seen this before.

when i fucked up in 1973.

now the only way i can ruin this town is to kill this

boy who likes tomatoes. his cheeks are so fat. he is

so unkempt. no threat to anyone. now he will aspire

to get his wife fuzzy slippers and drink fizz and be

amicable the rest of his arid life and no-one will appreciate his nothingness.

and so i must kill him. he is bad with traffic but he walks too slow.

with dirty ice-cream smeared on his fat lips.

i have 27 numbers on my back, and it is black

tucked asleep at night in this raven's feathers.

my master is blacker. and i live in fear of his

voice. i met the shadow of a wraith. he spoke of the wrath of

wraiths. then, he tried to eat me, but the old ladies

helped me, and i got away. still when I shirk, i hear him

screaming in the

soundless well.

pablo is sipping an orange soda. he is a sweet kid.

i hate him. he will not be distracted

staring into the gutter and

singing this stupid song…

yeah yeah pablo, singin in the sun..

nobody cares about me

and i dont care about anyone…

spitting orange-soda on the ants. i turned into bread. The

blackbirds swooped down

next to him, and made alot of noise trying to eat me

up, but he didnt care. he must have been sad. he

poured the rest of his soda into the gutter.

In the dregs of this august afternoon

crossing the street beneath cats, trying to catch cars. the water-truck

driver is so very fat. there are always flies buzzing

around in his cab. i turned into a buzzing fly,

i buzzed… bzzt tickled his nose hair. he swatted at me

of course hie missed and in a flash of steel and flesh

the life of this boy, his poetry foregone, concluded.

sometimes i feel like i have done enough,

but then the sun goes down and these people still

drink and laugh and kiss each other by the cathedral.

they dont even care about the scent of dead roses

•.•